“Drommelsch!” answers one of his companions, “The [[40]]devil himself couldn’t make the flood run up this hill! The mark of the deluge of 1300 is fifty feet below us.” Then he gives a hideous laugh and jeers: “How you French hate water.”
Breaking in upon this colloquy, Guy beckons the barber to one side and says to him: “Is the painter who lodges with you, Antony Oliver, in to-night?”
The answer he gets is discouraging: “No, he is in Brussels.”
“Ah!” assents Guy, the corners of his mouth drooping at these words, for it is this Oliver he has braved so much to see, and he dares not remain long in Antwerp. Then he asks anxiously: “Do you know when he will return?”
“To-morrow. He will come with his master, the Duke of Alva, to-morrow. He is herald and under-secretary to the Viceroy.”
“Yes!” cries the little boy, “I’m so glad of it, because when Monsieur Oliver comes we have so much pigeon pie. I like pigeon pie—don’t you?”
“Desperately,” laughs Guy, relieved at the knowledge of the painter’s quick return.
“Then I hope you won’t ask Monsieur Oliver for my share of pigeon pie,” babbles the child. “Perhaps, though, we won’t get any—a man carried so many pigeons away to-day.”
“Well, here’s a stiver to buy pigeon pie for yourself, my little man,” laughs Chester, giving the child a coin. Then he says to the father: “You are sure about your information?”
“Oh, I think so. You can make absolutely sure by asking his great friends, the Bodé Volckers. They will certainly know. He is a nice man, this Oliver, and a great painter—at least, he thinks himself a great painter. He has my son Achille as his student—my youngest is the little Maredie, the one who likes pigeon pie,” babbles the Frenchman, who has apparently been relieved from fear of the flood and pleased by Guy’s douceur to his child. Then he queries suddenly: “Haven’t I seen you before? You came to visit Monsieur Antony six months ago.”